Nearing the end of this match, with France leading 2-0, Kylian Mbappe played a showboating back heel pass that, to many flustered opponents, not least Uruguay, would have charged up an even more palpable sense of rage than the one that had clambered all over Ally McCoist when confronted by a dismissive John Champion.
True enough, Mbappe was cleaned out seconds later, Uruguay's muscular Sean Penn lookalike reacting to a perceived lack of respect by clattering in to the teenager. One can only imagine Penn's flared nostrils and heaving diaphragm, should he ever be shown footage of Leeds United's merciless baiting of Southampton in 1970.
I considered whether Mbappe's actions were naïve or callous? Was this arrogance of youth or someone wise beyond his years, schooled impeccably at Paris St Germain, learning all the time from his chum, Neymar? Drawing this foul won a useful free kick, and further dispirited opponents who'd been on the wrong end of two decisive moments for each goalkeeper. I strongly believe that Mbappe was playing the role of the Provacateur, and I also choose to presume that this hip, young gunslinger, who probably wears those earphones without wires, researched the role using VHS footage of official FIFA World Cup films that consistently stereotype Uruguay as a nation with a suspect temperament.
We read these days that some coaches encourage their players to watch "videos" to study the enemy, and it is natural to assume that prior to this match, Mbappe was prepped with clear instructions on how to insert a cassette tape into a video recording machine. By doing so, he would have been equipped with vital information from 'Goal!' the official FIFA film of the 1966 World Cup, which features Uruguay's group game against West Germany at Hillsborough. Reading from Brian Granville's script, the narrator helpfully contrasts the attitude of both nations on the day:
"In Sheffield, the Germans with their flags and banners - the Uruguayans with their inflammable tempers".
During the subsequent evidence, Mbappe would have noted both the hunting down of German striker Helmut Haller, and the role, or rolls Haller played in reacting to it.
"Tunnis is sent from the field while Haller writhes in convincing agony".
Bottom lip turned out and head nodding in appreciation, Mbappe would likely have ejected the cassette tape - upon which encountering a degree of impatience, the like of which no doubt would have seen a Uruguyan punch a hole through the television screen - before slotting in 'Hero' the official FIFA film of the 1986 World Cup, narrated by Michael Caine ("not a lot of people...") To a damning soundtrack, Caine puts sly words to sly images of the Uruguay team's committed fouling on Denmark ("the dazzling Danes").
"The foul is taken to a new level as Buross delivers a knee nudge to Laudrup's thigh".
Michael Laudrup's seemingly genuine writhing was similar to that of Scotland's Gordan Strachan during Uruguay's next and final group game of that tournament, when Batista became the quickest man in history to be sent off at just 61 seconds (one minute one second). Footage of this record breaking event on Strachan isn't documented on Hero, although there are clips of their players failing to hack Maradona down in their 2nd phase exit to Argentina (Uruguay somehow qualified for the knockout stage with 2 points after draws with West Germany and the Scots).
By this point, Mbappe would have gathered sufficient data to chisel away at Uruguays' trouble spot, and after Raphael Varane and Griezmann had put France into a commanding position, (curiously, Griezmann didn't do the Take The L celebration as customary, even though Muslera's dreadful spilling of his speculative shot actually provided an appropriate opportunity to perform it), either side of Hugo Lloris' spectacular save from Martin Caceres, Kylian picked his moment smartly, waited for Penn to strike and then set upon illustrating pain in a manner that would have made Alan Shearer very cross if he'd been paid to comment.
But the job was done, and Mbappe must now wait for tonight's outcome of Brazil-Belgium to see which cassettes to dust off or even untangle with a pencil to assist him and his team in the semi-final.
Friday, 2 November 2018
Monday, 15 October 2018
Penalty heartache as England progress
6:15pm, and driving my daughter home from her dance class, I cast an eye on the mixture of people in England shirts and straight-from-work clothes, holding pints and conversation in the front garden of the pub by what used to be my local shops.
There was definitely room for envy on my part, knowing their anticipation was building of a night that would contain excitement, tension and, possibly, jubilation at the end of it. I was in that pub during Euro 96, when a likeminded friend and I watched sour faced as England beat Holland 4-1. Sadly, that friend was turned by patriotism during the Germany semi-final, and though I only see him by chance these days, I expect he's kept up the national pride, just like all the rest. I saw the semi-final in that same pub, silently ecstatic when Arsenal's goalkeeper couldn't save the decisive penalty shoot-out kick, following the failure of one Gareth Southgate to beat Thomas Kopke in the Wembley goal.
"Oh no!" Barry Davies had yelled when Southgate's low shot was beaten away, probably a fan of that Venables team more than Graham Taylor's of four years earlier.
In contrast to the people in that pub tonight, my tension was purely negative, founded on my desperate hope that throughout the pubs and living rooms in the country, including my friends and family, there would be sadness. This may not say much for my character, putting my wishes first ahead of millions of others, but it's how I felt and I'll live with it. It's only hope after all. If I somehow had the chance to effect the result, say with some secret power, I wouldn't have used it. See, not such a bad character, really.
The nerves made the Colombia match unwatchable, but the unseen hung over me throughout the evening. Even though Rodriguez's injury had resigned me to the surely inevitable outcome, I was somehow still receptive to an alternative. The pride of Falcao might show England what we hadn't seen from him in a Chelsea or Manchester United shirt. Cuadrado, who had been given scant opportunity by Chelsea, might bring the winning mentality forged at Juventus, while defender Davinson Sanchez could find extra motivation in facing his Tottenham team-mates. Less hope was invested in Carlos Sanches, a disaster at Villa following his performances at World Cup 2014, and this year sent off after only two minutes in the opening game defeat to Japan for a daft handball in the area.
Twenty years ago during France 98, I'd invested reluctant faith in Colombia, too, when they played England in the final group game. I watched it in the pub on Brighton Pier with the turncoat friend and another, amongst the customary wall-to-wall ensemble of white shirts. I actually went into that tournament determined to support England, to claim the journey and exile the resentment. I even planted a poster of England in our front garden, complete with the crossed out face of Teddy Sheringham (I couldn't be expected to transition without some complications). I cheered goals from Shearer and Scholes in the 2-0 opening win over Tunisia, and then had friends round for the 2-1 defeat to Romania, in which I showed no let-up in damning the ineptitude of Sheringham. But by the time we were in the pub on the pier, I'd reverted to type, yearning for Valderamma's Colombia to break free of their ineffective, lightweight five-a-side favoured style of football and deny Glenn Hoddle's men a place in the second phase. My heart sank when Darren Anderton (of Spurs) whacked in the first goal, and then cursed David Beckham's 25 yard free kick curler that now counts as an embryonic example of a blossoming trademark. Bedlam broke out around me and England were through to face my beloved Argentina. Surrounded by the vibe of Loaded magazine as we left the pier towards town, a bloke latched on to the three of us, asking "Right lads, where we g'ain, where we g'ain?!!"
"Er, The Event?" my turncoat friend recommended, and it was in that vast, cheesy-tuned venue, that a couple of hours later, I joined a circle of triumph with my two friends to the inevitable playing of Three Lions and Vindaloo. But it was really just a hollow, drunken sham.
And so tonight. Without a giant screen projecting the images in front of me, I learned of my fate via a breaking news bulletin on the missus' phone. It read: 'England inflict more misery on Pierce by winning their first ever World Cup penalty shoot-out, 4-3 over Colombia'. Or something. My heart sank deeper than it did for the Anderton goal. Like then, there's significant Tottenham involvement in the 'heroics' (yawn). Kane scored another penalty in normal time (1-1), and Eric Dier (Ugh!) scored the decisive shoot-out kick. Gary Lineker, I later read, "had a tear in my eye", watching the players celebrating at the end.
I was left to absorb the bitterness of it, and mutter to the missus that my main hope now was in those Tottenham players matching their achievements at domestic club level of the last two seasons - beaten in FA Cup semi finals when the tough opposition finally showed up. Except that Croatia, if the tough opposition is to be Croatia, won't have the monied depth of talent like Chelsea and Manchester United (the last-four victors over Tottenham, respectively), and that, befitting a country of just 3 million, they/I will have a close-your-eyes, fingers-crossed faith that their first choice starting 11 are all still standing by the time of kick off in 8 days.
There was definitely room for envy on my part, knowing their anticipation was building of a night that would contain excitement, tension and, possibly, jubilation at the end of it. I was in that pub during Euro 96, when a likeminded friend and I watched sour faced as England beat Holland 4-1. Sadly, that friend was turned by patriotism during the Germany semi-final, and though I only see him by chance these days, I expect he's kept up the national pride, just like all the rest. I saw the semi-final in that same pub, silently ecstatic when Arsenal's goalkeeper couldn't save the decisive penalty shoot-out kick, following the failure of one Gareth Southgate to beat Thomas Kopke in the Wembley goal.
"Oh no!" Barry Davies had yelled when Southgate's low shot was beaten away, probably a fan of that Venables team more than Graham Taylor's of four years earlier.
In contrast to the people in that pub tonight, my tension was purely negative, founded on my desperate hope that throughout the pubs and living rooms in the country, including my friends and family, there would be sadness. This may not say much for my character, putting my wishes first ahead of millions of others, but it's how I felt and I'll live with it. It's only hope after all. If I somehow had the chance to effect the result, say with some secret power, I wouldn't have used it. See, not such a bad character, really.
The nerves made the Colombia match unwatchable, but the unseen hung over me throughout the evening. Even though Rodriguez's injury had resigned me to the surely inevitable outcome, I was somehow still receptive to an alternative. The pride of Falcao might show England what we hadn't seen from him in a Chelsea or Manchester United shirt. Cuadrado, who had been given scant opportunity by Chelsea, might bring the winning mentality forged at Juventus, while defender Davinson Sanchez could find extra motivation in facing his Tottenham team-mates. Less hope was invested in Carlos Sanches, a disaster at Villa following his performances at World Cup 2014, and this year sent off after only two minutes in the opening game defeat to Japan for a daft handball in the area.
Twenty years ago during France 98, I'd invested reluctant faith in Colombia, too, when they played England in the final group game. I watched it in the pub on Brighton Pier with the turncoat friend and another, amongst the customary wall-to-wall ensemble of white shirts. I actually went into that tournament determined to support England, to claim the journey and exile the resentment. I even planted a poster of England in our front garden, complete with the crossed out face of Teddy Sheringham (I couldn't be expected to transition without some complications). I cheered goals from Shearer and Scholes in the 2-0 opening win over Tunisia, and then had friends round for the 2-1 defeat to Romania, in which I showed no let-up in damning the ineptitude of Sheringham. But by the time we were in the pub on the pier, I'd reverted to type, yearning for Valderamma's Colombia to break free of their ineffective, lightweight five-a-side favoured style of football and deny Glenn Hoddle's men a place in the second phase. My heart sank when Darren Anderton (of Spurs) whacked in the first goal, and then cursed David Beckham's 25 yard free kick curler that now counts as an embryonic example of a blossoming trademark. Bedlam broke out around me and England were through to face my beloved Argentina. Surrounded by the vibe of Loaded magazine as we left the pier towards town, a bloke latched on to the three of us, asking "Right lads, where we g'ain, where we g'ain?!!"
"Er, The Event?" my turncoat friend recommended, and it was in that vast, cheesy-tuned venue, that a couple of hours later, I joined a circle of triumph with my two friends to the inevitable playing of Three Lions and Vindaloo. But it was really just a hollow, drunken sham.
And so tonight. Without a giant screen projecting the images in front of me, I learned of my fate via a breaking news bulletin on the missus' phone. It read: 'England inflict more misery on Pierce by winning their first ever World Cup penalty shoot-out, 4-3 over Colombia'. Or something. My heart sank deeper than it did for the Anderton goal. Like then, there's significant Tottenham involvement in the 'heroics' (yawn). Kane scored another penalty in normal time (1-1), and Eric Dier (Ugh!) scored the decisive shoot-out kick. Gary Lineker, I later read, "had a tear in my eye", watching the players celebrating at the end.
I was left to absorb the bitterness of it, and mutter to the missus that my main hope now was in those Tottenham players matching their achievements at domestic club level of the last two seasons - beaten in FA Cup semi finals when the tough opposition finally showed up. Except that Croatia, if the tough opposition is to be Croatia, won't have the monied depth of talent like Chelsea and Manchester United (the last-four victors over Tottenham, respectively), and that, befitting a country of just 3 million, they/I will have a close-your-eyes, fingers-crossed faith that their first choice starting 11 are all still standing by the time of kick off in 8 days.
Wednesday, 3 October 2018
Where have all the the Brolin's gone? - July 3rd
So where were you when Sweden beat Switzerland?
64,042 people were in the Saint Petersburg stadium to see it happen, but do they even remember who shot the ball in the net? In time, this will be the knockout Round tie of Russia 2018 that is forgotten, the missing match no one can quite put their finger on, the Anthony Costa of the last 16, a Shane Duffy making-up-the-numbers exercise. England fans will rack their brains and try in vain to recall who it was that Sweden beat to face them (and they will face them, James Rodriguez is almost definitely out for Colombia, the bastard, and it's all part of the conspiracy against me to fire England through to their already bend-free maze of a route to the semi-final), in the last eight.
Whoever won today was an irrelevance. What did it matter if England faced a Switzerland team containing Vanion Behrami, who was let go by Watford, or Sweden, for whom their established midfielder, Toiven was released by a Sunderland team in the full throes of their cannon-balling from Premier League to League one, after scoring just one goal for them?
All this may sound harsh on the country of my blood. By that I mean Sweden. A few years ago I learned that I am 1/8th Swedish, after my dad's grandad. Perhaps the signs were already there, years before this understated Who Do You Think You Are? discovery of my connection with the country. My first active celebration of a goal against England was Tomas Brolin's dazzling winner in Euro 92 that secured their place in the Gothenburg semi final at their victims' expense.
"Why are you cheering against England?" my sister asked me, clearly not remembering that she'd worked me out in the Italia 90 semi-final against Germany.
"Stuart wants England to lose" she'd accused that night in Turin, with all the ill-conceived judgement of someone who showed no interest in football three years out of four. During the Cameroon quarter-final, she'd zipped her top up over her face every time Roger Milla got the ball, but a year later was telling Barry Davies to shut up when commentating excitably on a snap shot at Anfield.
By the time of Brolin's goal at Euro 92, I was already a fan of his from a friend's Sky TV recording (which I in no way paid for) of the Coppa Italia Final of that year, in which his Parma side beat Juventus. I also had the fetching yellow Sweden kit, and would crown any goal during kickabouts with Brolin's trademark twist-in-the air celebration. Anders Limpar's appearance in the team helped, too, though more unexpected was my love affair with ABBA, developed on a Bank Holiday Monday in 1995 when ABBA The Movie was put on the telly. I don't know what compelled me to tape this part-comedy, part documentary of their 1977 tour of Australia (Lou from Neighbours played both the band's minder and a taxi driver, highlighting the country's famous actor shortage), but I watched it daily for several months, eventually falling in love with Frida.
At that time, I would have perhaps combusted with joy to learn of my Swedish ancestry, so it was probably best that I found out much later, when things had settled down a little.
And they do seem to have settled down a little. IKEA is no replacement for the lost Fridas and Brolins to the world. While I admit that a trip to Wembley has provided, among other things, effective storage solutions for our family and a generous supply of great value meatballs, this is not a patch on a succession of tragi-pop smash hits or an outside of the boot prod into the top corner.
That said, I wasn't the only Englishman to enthuse over Brolin's 81st minute elimination of England, as Davies on BBC and Brian Moore on ITV went, respectively, with "Brilliant, brilliant goal!" and "Fantastic goaaaal!" Davies was far more sanguine with Maradona's second against England in 86, resigning himself to admit that "you have to say that's magnificent", perhaps showing more affection for Bobby Robson's team that year than for Graham Taylor's labourers of 92.
Regardless, there is no Brolin-type figurehead for Sweden anymore, nor is there Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who scored four for Sweden in a friendly against England in 2012, including an overhead volley from 30 yards. Unlike the existence of Brazil and France and Belgium - all in the other side of the bloody draw - I have no Brolin or Ibrahimovich to rely on. Nor even a Limpar or a Ljungberg. Nor a Henrik Larsson, busy these days judging women. There's not even a Stefan Schwarz. Not even a Hakan Mild. The Swedes fought hard to beat the Swizz with a looping deflected winner, and then proceeded to sky several excellent chances that they won't have the luxury of against England. Their centre forward, Marcus Berg, hasn't scored at this World Cup yet, although it's fair to say he hasn't played against Tunisia or Panama.
In 1996, when I worked in a hotel-adjoined Health Club in Watford, the work experience boy and I watched on fascinated, as the IFK Gothenburg squad walked in to the lobby in their club tracksuits. One after another, familiar faces from the tv screen walked up to us asking to take a towel for the pool, and us asking them to sign in to the hotel guest list; 'eccentric' goalkeeper Thomas Ravelli, eye-caching winger Jesper Blomqvist, later of Manchester United, workhorse midfielder Mild, who my turncoat England friend and I used to compare a hapless team mate of ours to. Players who played in the World Cup semi-final two years before.
I don't know why the Swedes have stopped producing big. Even the Danes are outstripping them for BBC Four dark drama. Saga Noren may be the star of The Bridge, but it's a show set in Denmark, which has already given us The Killing and Borgen. But maybe on Saturday, a star could be born again and lift a nation, following in Brolin's footsteps and sending Englan...oh no, see, there's that hope again...
64,042 people were in the Saint Petersburg stadium to see it happen, but do they even remember who shot the ball in the net? In time, this will be the knockout Round tie of Russia 2018 that is forgotten, the missing match no one can quite put their finger on, the Anthony Costa of the last 16, a Shane Duffy making-up-the-numbers exercise. England fans will rack their brains and try in vain to recall who it was that Sweden beat to face them (and they will face them, James Rodriguez is almost definitely out for Colombia, the bastard, and it's all part of the conspiracy against me to fire England through to their already bend-free maze of a route to the semi-final), in the last eight.
Whoever won today was an irrelevance. What did it matter if England faced a Switzerland team containing Vanion Behrami, who was let go by Watford, or Sweden, for whom their established midfielder, Toiven was released by a Sunderland team in the full throes of their cannon-balling from Premier League to League one, after scoring just one goal for them?
All this may sound harsh on the country of my blood. By that I mean Sweden. A few years ago I learned that I am 1/8th Swedish, after my dad's grandad. Perhaps the signs were already there, years before this understated Who Do You Think You Are? discovery of my connection with the country. My first active celebration of a goal against England was Tomas Brolin's dazzling winner in Euro 92 that secured their place in the Gothenburg semi final at their victims' expense.
"Why are you cheering against England?" my sister asked me, clearly not remembering that she'd worked me out in the Italia 90 semi-final against Germany.
"Stuart wants England to lose" she'd accused that night in Turin, with all the ill-conceived judgement of someone who showed no interest in football three years out of four. During the Cameroon quarter-final, she'd zipped her top up over her face every time Roger Milla got the ball, but a year later was telling Barry Davies to shut up when commentating excitably on a snap shot at Anfield.
By the time of Brolin's goal at Euro 92, I was already a fan of his from a friend's Sky TV recording (which I in no way paid for) of the Coppa Italia Final of that year, in which his Parma side beat Juventus. I also had the fetching yellow Sweden kit, and would crown any goal during kickabouts with Brolin's trademark twist-in-the air celebration. Anders Limpar's appearance in the team helped, too, though more unexpected was my love affair with ABBA, developed on a Bank Holiday Monday in 1995 when ABBA The Movie was put on the telly. I don't know what compelled me to tape this part-comedy, part documentary of their 1977 tour of Australia (Lou from Neighbours played both the band's minder and a taxi driver, highlighting the country's famous actor shortage), but I watched it daily for several months, eventually falling in love with Frida.
At that time, I would have perhaps combusted with joy to learn of my Swedish ancestry, so it was probably best that I found out much later, when things had settled down a little.
And they do seem to have settled down a little. IKEA is no replacement for the lost Fridas and Brolins to the world. While I admit that a trip to Wembley has provided, among other things, effective storage solutions for our family and a generous supply of great value meatballs, this is not a patch on a succession of tragi-pop smash hits or an outside of the boot prod into the top corner.
That said, I wasn't the only Englishman to enthuse over Brolin's 81st minute elimination of England, as Davies on BBC and Brian Moore on ITV went, respectively, with "Brilliant, brilliant goal!" and "Fantastic goaaaal!" Davies was far more sanguine with Maradona's second against England in 86, resigning himself to admit that "you have to say that's magnificent", perhaps showing more affection for Bobby Robson's team that year than for Graham Taylor's labourers of 92.
Regardless, there is no Brolin-type figurehead for Sweden anymore, nor is there Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who scored four for Sweden in a friendly against England in 2012, including an overhead volley from 30 yards. Unlike the existence of Brazil and France and Belgium - all in the other side of the bloody draw - I have no Brolin or Ibrahimovich to rely on. Nor even a Limpar or a Ljungberg. Nor a Henrik Larsson, busy these days judging women. There's not even a Stefan Schwarz. Not even a Hakan Mild. The Swedes fought hard to beat the Swizz with a looping deflected winner, and then proceeded to sky several excellent chances that they won't have the luxury of against England. Their centre forward, Marcus Berg, hasn't scored at this World Cup yet, although it's fair to say he hasn't played against Tunisia or Panama.
In 1996, when I worked in a hotel-adjoined Health Club in Watford, the work experience boy and I watched on fascinated, as the IFK Gothenburg squad walked in to the lobby in their club tracksuits. One after another, familiar faces from the tv screen walked up to us asking to take a towel for the pool, and us asking them to sign in to the hotel guest list; 'eccentric' goalkeeper Thomas Ravelli, eye-caching winger Jesper Blomqvist, later of Manchester United, workhorse midfielder Mild, who my turncoat England friend and I used to compare a hapless team mate of ours to. Players who played in the World Cup semi-final two years before.
I don't know why the Swedes have stopped producing big. Even the Danes are outstripping them for BBC Four dark drama. Saga Noren may be the star of The Bridge, but it's a show set in Denmark, which has already given us The Killing and Borgen. But maybe on Saturday, a star could be born again and lift a nation, following in Brolin's footsteps and sending Englan...oh no, see, there's that hope again...
Thursday, 27 September 2018
Belgium v Japan breaks 44 year record to live up to BBC's edge-of-the-seat half-time thriller
8:15pm. The missus was on a night shift, the kids were asleep and a World Cup last 16 tie was on my telly, almost live. I was a single man again, living it up.
By twenty to nine, I was falling asleep, a victim once more of life's daily pressing game. The glasses went off again, resting on top of the sofa and I curled into a ball, ready to wake when nature intended.
Twenty minutes later, I came round, the lucky recipient of a 'power nap', my whole evening still ahead of me, to be filled by one of the best matches at this World Cup, notable for an occurrence that hadn't happened in any of the previous12 tournaments.
The action on the pitch delivered big, and yet it was hard pushed by half-time in the BBC studio, which produced a thriller.
In the first forty five minutes, Japan, Belgium's dubious trade-off for Brazil, had chased Roberto Martinez's team all over the pitch and went into the break 0-0. The BBC pundits, Rio Ferdinand, Jurgen Klinsmann and Alan Shearer (from left to right) had some points to make about that, but things started to hot up considerably when Lineker engaged discussion on a particular moment during Brazil-Mexico earlier in the day.
Perhaps guilty once more of following ITV's lead, friction was courted on the subject of Neymar, although it wasn't the merits of his goal here that was put up for aggravation, but instead his Rivaldo-esque play-acting down by the touchline after being tapped on the boot by an opponent minding his own business. Now, in terms of people about to have an opinion on the matter, I couldn't think of anyone better placed than Shearer or Klinsmann. For touchline controversy and diving respectively, we had the dream team of observers. Only the addition of Drogba could have whetted the appetite more - an incredulous statement yes, but this was a unique development.
Shearer, single-minded in his pursuit of total hypocrisy, or merely a victim of amnesia, had the furrowed brow firmly in place when dealing with Neymar's exhausting theatrics.
"What does he want to do that for?" he asked furiously, and to be fair to the lad of a sheet-metal worker, viewers born before or unaware of controversies in 1998 would probably have agreed without laughing. Shearer simply seemed to be suggesting that the antics of the Paris St Germain man should be stamped out, if not booted full on in the head. Not even Neil Lennon went down like that when he was properly hit by an opponent that time at Filbert Street.
Eyes narrowing in competition with the eyebrows, Shearer then took the the opportunity to reveal other areas of the game he was starting to tire of, in particular "surrounding the referee". This spontaneous, irony-laden, round of Room 101 reminded me of Jimmy Hill's reflections at the end of France 98 when he'd remarked "let's get rid of the divers and the hooligans". For me, that wish list carries a greater weight of credibility than Shearer's tonight, on the basis that the late Hill hadn't rallied against a growing number of players with big chins going on to become managers and chairmen of the PFA.
Having shrieked my incredulity at Shearer's fair-play standpoint, I recovered myself for the next treat, as Lineker turned to Klinsmann, arguably the greatest exponent of con-artistry the game has ever seen. Among many career highlights, his 1990 interpretation of a footballer in full flight developing an epileptic fit is perhaps the standout moment, claiming as it did, the first red card in a World Cup Final, delivered to Argentina's Pedro Monzon, Klinsmann's 'assailant', by yet another hoodwinked ref.
So Jurgen, you heard Alan: Neymar, what does he want to do that for?
What a pleasure to experience this! A rare moment of something actually interesting coming from the BBC's World Cup studio. Like Jurgen's dramatics in the Stadio Olimpico, I hadn't seen the twist coming.
Now that the big moment was deliciously here, which route would Klinnsy choose - Shearer's uneven road to devolved responsibility, or the smoother surface of humility? Perhaps ironically, he went for honesty, putting the blame on defenders for their constant fouling behind the ref's back, forcing the skilful players to illustrate their rough treatment when the right moment came. He spoke softly, and not as fluidly as usual, this a raw subject close to his heart. He seems like a nice chap, but you have to be tough to survive at the top, and up the front, for so long. Pained encounters with hatchet men all over the globe have clearly left a mark, and the practice of his own, infamous, dark arts had often provided the payback. I remember well, Klinsmann's revenge dive in the 1994 European Cup semi-final for Monaco that cost AC Milan defender, Alessandro Costacurta, his place in the Final. Visibly angered by another sly assault by the Italian, Klinsmann had sprung technik to manipulate further contact with Costacurta, resulting in the long mastered fall, and a fatal second yellow of the competition for his roughhouse shadow.
So then, are we to believe that most of Klinsmann's dives were in response to unpunished crimes upon his person? Was his dive between two Holland players in the 1988 European Championships semi-final to earn West Germany a penalty, (air)borne out of unseen brutality that some Dutchmen may well have naturally carried out on the host nation's countrymen? Was his stunned-gunned reaction to outstretched Czechoslovakian legs in the quarter final of Italia 90 simply a fuck-you for their repeated fouling in that game, earning another pen for captain Lothar Matthaus (who'd also scored the one against Holland in 88)?
Sometimes there was, literally, a flip-side. After Denmark beat Germany in the 1992 European Championship Final in Gothenburg, the winning goalkeeper Peter Schmeichel revealed that his inspired performance - including two thrilling saves from Klinsmann efforts - was the result of his fury over the forward's play-acting in the match.
By the time of Klinsmann's arrival at Tottenham in 1995, his reputation was such that he opened his first media address here by asking the assembled journalists if they knew of any diving schools. Rather than declare an affront to the cheating German mocking them, the media began a season-long love-in with the charming European. In Klinsmann's first game in the Premier League, he celebrated a goal against Sheffield Wednesday by diving dramatically to the turf in an homage to himself, joined by excitable English team mates who'd probably been outraged at the part played by Klinsmann's German team-mate, Thomas Berthold, in removing Paul Gascoigne from a potential 1990 World Cup Final.
For me, Klinsmann's exposure to Lineker's questioning was a moment 12 years in the hoping. When Klinsmann was Germany's Head coach at the 2006 World Cup in his own country, I'd longed for his team to get knocked out by a diving injustice, and then to hear his views on it. The moral of this story then is patience, that if you watch enough World Cups, you will eventually get rewarded.
Staying quiet in this unforgettable interlude was forgotten guest, Ferdinand, and rightly so. Fortunately for him, his earlier comments on the Japanese went under the radar, thanks to the sensation on offer elsewhere. Shown footage of Japan's supporters in Russia clearing up litter in the stadiums after matches, Rio claimed that "Premier League fans should do that", which was an interesting view, and one I'd have liked to have seen him probed on, if only Lineker had had the time. Was Rio suggesting that fans in the Premier League pick up their own mess - which would seem a fair point - or does he want them to pick up everyone else's rubbish, on top of the £40-50 price of admission? Or are these simply the strained words of a man bringing up three kids by himself and sick to the back teeth of everyone else's shit lying everywhere?
So how on earth could the second half live up to that!
Well, two Japanese goals in the first ten minutes helped. The second was scored by Takashi Inui, a player I'd seen score twice against Barcelona for Eibar at the end of 2016-7 on Sky Sports Mix, a channel, I hasten to add, that was chucked in with our Virgin Media setup, somehow. This is me basically justifying what some might perceive as an act of compliance with Murdoch, and indeed Sugar (who proudly declares to anyone who'll listen that it was he who persuaded Sky - probably 'on the blower' to "blow 'em' out the water" and take free, live football on ITV away from the common man and woman). Sky Sports Mix was technically a free channel, and I'd argue that this in no way devalues my principled stance of 26 years. And yes, Ok, I have gone to the flats and houses of weaker-willed/couldn't give a shit, friends to watch live games courtesy of their evil dishes, and yes I have gone to pubs to do the same, even got out of bed at 3am to watch a few when I lived in Sydney, but I still haven't ever directly paid for any football other than what I have seen in a stadium, and indeed never been tempted to comply with football as a 'package' or a fucking 'bundle'. Derided though Elton Welsby may have been, I could hear Dad berate his comments for free every Sunday afternoon. All Sky did was put in their own ITV man, Richard Keys, surround him with dead bodies filling airtime for an unnecessarily extended period and then show the match for £30 odd quid a month. Atmosphere-killing Monday Night Football followed, where the only excitement came from propaganda-driven commentators while the noise of the paying fan was directed sourly towards the Sky Strikers or the stupid pop band we had to listen to at half time. Although these particular sources of entertainment wilted away, viewers are now obliged to be in thrall to ex players delivering tactical insights and magnifying errors or controversies linked to tabloid sales. The graphics look good, but who REALLY gives a shit? Give me Jurgen Klinsmann talking about diving any day.
Anyway, where was I, oh yes, Belgium 0 Japan 2, 40 minutes from the apparent prize catch of Group G going through to a quarter-final with Brazil. Bloody Adnan Januzai and that dopy, well-taken goal of his. This could have been England losing to Japan. Admittedly, England would have played more high balls into the box, a traditional gameplan directed by their apparently modern, down-with-the-kids manager. I have been writing World Cup memoirs since 2006, and in 2010 I stated to myself (as now) that the history of England goals from set-pieces in every World cup they've qualified for must be unprecedented in a 'leading nation'. Six out of their eight this year is a reflection of that history.
Inui's goal leads me to a personal moment of intrigue. The goal, indeed goals, I watched him score against Barcelona on that bonus Virgin Media channel, came on 21st May, which happens to be the missus' birthday. Was I really watching live La Liga football on the evening of such an event? Perhaps I just watched a bit of it whilst she dried her hair in between courses of the gourmet dinner I undoubtedly served up, although looking back, I am pretty sure I watched the whole thing. Maybe I recorded it and watched it the next day. Though actually, looking further into this, I haven't always sacrificed myself on this significant date of my significant other. Her birthday falls dangerously within a period of climactic end-of-season activity, and this can make fixture-checking a tense affair. The 2004, 2005 and 2016 FA Cup Finals fell on her birthday, as did 2008's all-English Champions League Final. I have to confess I watched all of these, though in 2004 I did pass her the hairdryer as she got ready to go out with me and friends, while in 2005 I was good enough to take her and her parents with me to the pub when Arsenal played Manchester United. There had been a family dinner planned in 2008, but it coincided with her exhaustion at handing in an assignment, or completing a degree, so that the whole thing sadly fell through. In 2016, I didn't see the match until the next morning, therefore missing a live Cup Final for the first time. Some people give away their last Rolo, I record the match.
So Belgium were staring at a return home ducking rotten tomatoes at the airport, and Danny Murphy began to doubt his own wisdom.
"Well, we've been praising Martinez, but he needs to make substitutions to help his team turn the game", he said, not word for word, but along those lines, probably. Wise not-words-for-words as it turned out, but the catalyst for the comeback came from an almost certain fluke when Jan Vertonghen's apparent header back across goal, looped over the Japanese goalie for 2-1. There are some cases in football when for example, only Nayim or Ronaldinho really know if they meant that to happen, and the serious look on Vertonghen's face as he ran back to the touchline didn't offer up any clues to his intention of a few seconds earlier. Some more helpfully make it obvious, like Stan Collymore holding his head in bemusement at Ewood Park in 1995-96, telling us that the then Liverpool striker hadn't deliberately struck a 25 yarder onto a divot right in front of Tim Flowers' that took the ball over the goalkeeper's head and into the net.
Following on from the Tottenham defender's goal, the Premier League then dominated the show. Manchester United's Romelu Lukaku, seemingly inspired by his goalscoring colleague, also tried not to score from a header but sadly succeeded, six yards from goal. His fellow United man, Marouane Fellaini, then showed both how to do it by nodding in an equaliser from Eden Hazard's cross - vindication for former Liverpool, Fulham, Tottenham and Blackburn Rovers man, Murphy, with Fellaini being one of the subs Martinez used.
Japan held firm right up to injury time, only for their most experienced player, Keisuke Honda - a sub - to foolishly send in a cross above 5 foot 7 height. Chelsea's Thibaut Courtois claimed easily, rolled the ball out quickly and the well-oiled Manchester City midfielder, Kevin De Bruyne, surged down the field. He played in Thomas Meunier, who put the ball across goal from the right, where Lukaku sensibly opted against shooting to allow West Bromwich Albion's Nacer Chadli - sub - to tap in.
While the Belgians cavorted, I felt sorry for Japan, the first team to lose from a 2-0 lead in a World Cup knockout match since England in the 1970 quarter final Final against West Germany. Uwe Seeler's remarkable back-headed goal in that game in Leon appears more a deliberate effort at scoring that Vertonghen's, but again only he will know for sure. That game is also notable for a manager's substitution choice, with Alf Ramsey being blamed for taking Bobby Charlton off with England 2-1 up.
By twenty to nine, I was falling asleep, a victim once more of life's daily pressing game. The glasses went off again, resting on top of the sofa and I curled into a ball, ready to wake when nature intended.
Twenty minutes later, I came round, the lucky recipient of a 'power nap', my whole evening still ahead of me, to be filled by one of the best matches at this World Cup, notable for an occurrence that hadn't happened in any of the previous12 tournaments.
The action on the pitch delivered big, and yet it was hard pushed by half-time in the BBC studio, which produced a thriller.
In the first forty five minutes, Japan, Belgium's dubious trade-off for Brazil, had chased Roberto Martinez's team all over the pitch and went into the break 0-0. The BBC pundits, Rio Ferdinand, Jurgen Klinsmann and Alan Shearer (from left to right) had some points to make about that, but things started to hot up considerably when Lineker engaged discussion on a particular moment during Brazil-Mexico earlier in the day.
Perhaps guilty once more of following ITV's lead, friction was courted on the subject of Neymar, although it wasn't the merits of his goal here that was put up for aggravation, but instead his Rivaldo-esque play-acting down by the touchline after being tapped on the boot by an opponent minding his own business. Now, in terms of people about to have an opinion on the matter, I couldn't think of anyone better placed than Shearer or Klinsmann. For touchline controversy and diving respectively, we had the dream team of observers. Only the addition of Drogba could have whetted the appetite more - an incredulous statement yes, but this was a unique development.
Shearer, single-minded in his pursuit of total hypocrisy, or merely a victim of amnesia, had the furrowed brow firmly in place when dealing with Neymar's exhausting theatrics.
"What does he want to do that for?" he asked furiously, and to be fair to the lad of a sheet-metal worker, viewers born before or unaware of controversies in 1998 would probably have agreed without laughing. Shearer simply seemed to be suggesting that the antics of the Paris St Germain man should be stamped out, if not booted full on in the head. Not even Neil Lennon went down like that when he was properly hit by an opponent that time at Filbert Street.
Eyes narrowing in competition with the eyebrows, Shearer then took the the opportunity to reveal other areas of the game he was starting to tire of, in particular "surrounding the referee". This spontaneous, irony-laden, round of Room 101 reminded me of Jimmy Hill's reflections at the end of France 98 when he'd remarked "let's get rid of the divers and the hooligans". For me, that wish list carries a greater weight of credibility than Shearer's tonight, on the basis that the late Hill hadn't rallied against a growing number of players with big chins going on to become managers and chairmen of the PFA.
Having shrieked my incredulity at Shearer's fair-play standpoint, I recovered myself for the next treat, as Lineker turned to Klinsmann, arguably the greatest exponent of con-artistry the game has ever seen. Among many career highlights, his 1990 interpretation of a footballer in full flight developing an epileptic fit is perhaps the standout moment, claiming as it did, the first red card in a World Cup Final, delivered to Argentina's Pedro Monzon, Klinsmann's 'assailant', by yet another hoodwinked ref.
So Jurgen, you heard Alan: Neymar, what does he want to do that for?
What a pleasure to experience this! A rare moment of something actually interesting coming from the BBC's World Cup studio. Like Jurgen's dramatics in the Stadio Olimpico, I hadn't seen the twist coming.
Now that the big moment was deliciously here, which route would Klinnsy choose - Shearer's uneven road to devolved responsibility, or the smoother surface of humility? Perhaps ironically, he went for honesty, putting the blame on defenders for their constant fouling behind the ref's back, forcing the skilful players to illustrate their rough treatment when the right moment came. He spoke softly, and not as fluidly as usual, this a raw subject close to his heart. He seems like a nice chap, but you have to be tough to survive at the top, and up the front, for so long. Pained encounters with hatchet men all over the globe have clearly left a mark, and the practice of his own, infamous, dark arts had often provided the payback. I remember well, Klinsmann's revenge dive in the 1994 European Cup semi-final for Monaco that cost AC Milan defender, Alessandro Costacurta, his place in the Final. Visibly angered by another sly assault by the Italian, Klinsmann had sprung technik to manipulate further contact with Costacurta, resulting in the long mastered fall, and a fatal second yellow of the competition for his roughhouse shadow.
So then, are we to believe that most of Klinsmann's dives were in response to unpunished crimes upon his person? Was his dive between two Holland players in the 1988 European Championships semi-final to earn West Germany a penalty, (air)borne out of unseen brutality that some Dutchmen may well have naturally carried out on the host nation's countrymen? Was his stunned-gunned reaction to outstretched Czechoslovakian legs in the quarter final of Italia 90 simply a fuck-you for their repeated fouling in that game, earning another pen for captain Lothar Matthaus (who'd also scored the one against Holland in 88)?
Sometimes there was, literally, a flip-side. After Denmark beat Germany in the 1992 European Championship Final in Gothenburg, the winning goalkeeper Peter Schmeichel revealed that his inspired performance - including two thrilling saves from Klinsmann efforts - was the result of his fury over the forward's play-acting in the match.
By the time of Klinsmann's arrival at Tottenham in 1995, his reputation was such that he opened his first media address here by asking the assembled journalists if they knew of any diving schools. Rather than declare an affront to the cheating German mocking them, the media began a season-long love-in with the charming European. In Klinsmann's first game in the Premier League, he celebrated a goal against Sheffield Wednesday by diving dramatically to the turf in an homage to himself, joined by excitable English team mates who'd probably been outraged at the part played by Klinsmann's German team-mate, Thomas Berthold, in removing Paul Gascoigne from a potential 1990 World Cup Final.
For me, Klinsmann's exposure to Lineker's questioning was a moment 12 years in the hoping. When Klinsmann was Germany's Head coach at the 2006 World Cup in his own country, I'd longed for his team to get knocked out by a diving injustice, and then to hear his views on it. The moral of this story then is patience, that if you watch enough World Cups, you will eventually get rewarded.
Staying quiet in this unforgettable interlude was forgotten guest, Ferdinand, and rightly so. Fortunately for him, his earlier comments on the Japanese went under the radar, thanks to the sensation on offer elsewhere. Shown footage of Japan's supporters in Russia clearing up litter in the stadiums after matches, Rio claimed that "Premier League fans should do that", which was an interesting view, and one I'd have liked to have seen him probed on, if only Lineker had had the time. Was Rio suggesting that fans in the Premier League pick up their own mess - which would seem a fair point - or does he want them to pick up everyone else's rubbish, on top of the £40-50 price of admission? Or are these simply the strained words of a man bringing up three kids by himself and sick to the back teeth of everyone else's shit lying everywhere?
So how on earth could the second half live up to that!
Well, two Japanese goals in the first ten minutes helped. The second was scored by Takashi Inui, a player I'd seen score twice against Barcelona for Eibar at the end of 2016-7 on Sky Sports Mix, a channel, I hasten to add, that was chucked in with our Virgin Media setup, somehow. This is me basically justifying what some might perceive as an act of compliance with Murdoch, and indeed Sugar (who proudly declares to anyone who'll listen that it was he who persuaded Sky - probably 'on the blower' to "blow 'em' out the water" and take free, live football on ITV away from the common man and woman). Sky Sports Mix was technically a free channel, and I'd argue that this in no way devalues my principled stance of 26 years. And yes, Ok, I have gone to the flats and houses of weaker-willed/couldn't give a shit, friends to watch live games courtesy of their evil dishes, and yes I have gone to pubs to do the same, even got out of bed at 3am to watch a few when I lived in Sydney, but I still haven't ever directly paid for any football other than what I have seen in a stadium, and indeed never been tempted to comply with football as a 'package' or a fucking 'bundle'. Derided though Elton Welsby may have been, I could hear Dad berate his comments for free every Sunday afternoon. All Sky did was put in their own ITV man, Richard Keys, surround him with dead bodies filling airtime for an unnecessarily extended period and then show the match for £30 odd quid a month. Atmosphere-killing Monday Night Football followed, where the only excitement came from propaganda-driven commentators while the noise of the paying fan was directed sourly towards the Sky Strikers or the stupid pop band we had to listen to at half time. Although these particular sources of entertainment wilted away, viewers are now obliged to be in thrall to ex players delivering tactical insights and magnifying errors or controversies linked to tabloid sales. The graphics look good, but who REALLY gives a shit? Give me Jurgen Klinsmann talking about diving any day.
Anyway, where was I, oh yes, Belgium 0 Japan 2, 40 minutes from the apparent prize catch of Group G going through to a quarter-final with Brazil. Bloody Adnan Januzai and that dopy, well-taken goal of his. This could have been England losing to Japan. Admittedly, England would have played more high balls into the box, a traditional gameplan directed by their apparently modern, down-with-the-kids manager. I have been writing World Cup memoirs since 2006, and in 2010 I stated to myself (as now) that the history of England goals from set-pieces in every World cup they've qualified for must be unprecedented in a 'leading nation'. Six out of their eight this year is a reflection of that history.
Inui's goal leads me to a personal moment of intrigue. The goal, indeed goals, I watched him score against Barcelona on that bonus Virgin Media channel, came on 21st May, which happens to be the missus' birthday. Was I really watching live La Liga football on the evening of such an event? Perhaps I just watched a bit of it whilst she dried her hair in between courses of the gourmet dinner I undoubtedly served up, although looking back, I am pretty sure I watched the whole thing. Maybe I recorded it and watched it the next day. Though actually, looking further into this, I haven't always sacrificed myself on this significant date of my significant other. Her birthday falls dangerously within a period of climactic end-of-season activity, and this can make fixture-checking a tense affair. The 2004, 2005 and 2016 FA Cup Finals fell on her birthday, as did 2008's all-English Champions League Final. I have to confess I watched all of these, though in 2004 I did pass her the hairdryer as she got ready to go out with me and friends, while in 2005 I was good enough to take her and her parents with me to the pub when Arsenal played Manchester United. There had been a family dinner planned in 2008, but it coincided with her exhaustion at handing in an assignment, or completing a degree, so that the whole thing sadly fell through. In 2016, I didn't see the match until the next morning, therefore missing a live Cup Final for the first time. Some people give away their last Rolo, I record the match.
So Belgium were staring at a return home ducking rotten tomatoes at the airport, and Danny Murphy began to doubt his own wisdom.
"Well, we've been praising Martinez, but he needs to make substitutions to help his team turn the game", he said, not word for word, but along those lines, probably. Wise not-words-for-words as it turned out, but the catalyst for the comeback came from an almost certain fluke when Jan Vertonghen's apparent header back across goal, looped over the Japanese goalie for 2-1. There are some cases in football when for example, only Nayim or Ronaldinho really know if they meant that to happen, and the serious look on Vertonghen's face as he ran back to the touchline didn't offer up any clues to his intention of a few seconds earlier. Some more helpfully make it obvious, like Stan Collymore holding his head in bemusement at Ewood Park in 1995-96, telling us that the then Liverpool striker hadn't deliberately struck a 25 yarder onto a divot right in front of Tim Flowers' that took the ball over the goalkeeper's head and into the net.
Following on from the Tottenham defender's goal, the Premier League then dominated the show. Manchester United's Romelu Lukaku, seemingly inspired by his goalscoring colleague, also tried not to score from a header but sadly succeeded, six yards from goal. His fellow United man, Marouane Fellaini, then showed both how to do it by nodding in an equaliser from Eden Hazard's cross - vindication for former Liverpool, Fulham, Tottenham and Blackburn Rovers man, Murphy, with Fellaini being one of the subs Martinez used.
Japan held firm right up to injury time, only for their most experienced player, Keisuke Honda - a sub - to foolishly send in a cross above 5 foot 7 height. Chelsea's Thibaut Courtois claimed easily, rolled the ball out quickly and the well-oiled Manchester City midfielder, Kevin De Bruyne, surged down the field. He played in Thomas Meunier, who put the ball across goal from the right, where Lukaku sensibly opted against shooting to allow West Bromwich Albion's Nacer Chadli - sub - to tap in.
While the Belgians cavorted, I felt sorry for Japan, the first team to lose from a 2-0 lead in a World Cup knockout match since England in the 1970 quarter final Final against West Germany. Uwe Seeler's remarkable back-headed goal in that game in Leon appears more a deliberate effort at scoring that Vertonghen's, but again only he will know for sure. That game is also notable for a manager's substitution choice, with Alf Ramsey being blamed for taking Bobby Charlton off with England 2-1 up.
Thursday, 23 August 2018
Return of the McC - Brazil v Mexico, Round of 16
July 2nd 2018
In my last post I touched upon the potential of BBC's Guy Mowbray to alienate his colleagues in the commentary box, but over on ITV today for Brazil-Mexico, cracks were starting to show in the relationship between returning warhorses, John Champion and Ally McCoist.
Both Champion and McCoist had seemed to have had their day in the art of describing and pontificating at ITV, big game players back in The Match era (2001-2004) but later presumed missing by those of us unwilling to make the hostage payments to BT Sport. As far as I was concerned, Champion and his former ITV colleagues Peter Drury and Jim Beglin had been floating under the sea in Andy Townsend's Tactics Truck since 2010, although I was aware that McCoist had breathed some air as manager of Rangers during their Premier Division exile in the last few years.
No grudges between the channel and the returning personalities appeared to be evident as they teamed up once more for this World Cup, although this afternoon there did seem to be some needle between the artists themselves, revealing itself in some barely controlled bickering over whether Neymar's opening goal was any good or not.
Some might suggest the exchange merely shows a difference of opinion, but at first, Champion appears to completely ignore McCoist's alternative view, choosing to overwrite the words of someone far better qualified to discuss six-yard box toe-pokes. And from then on, both attempt to win the argument by virtue of landing the final word. Those with trained ears will testify that the debate continued in whispered form, only ended by a period of silence while Champion recovered from a wincing blow to his upper thigh.
The approach has worked wonders for ITV outside of sport, too, notably with Richard and Judy, while Jeremy Kyle has proved a roaring success. Other channels have followed suit, such as Channel 4 with Big Brother, while at Euro 16, BBC sat Alan Shearer alongside Neil Lennon in the same lifetime as the former's attempted decapitation on the latter, down by the Filbert Street touchline.
In footballing terms, ITV are subscribing to 'The Conflict Model', established by Johan Cruyff as a manager, and practiced now, most famously, by Jose Mourinho, with the aim of maintaining or even ramping up the intensity at a club after a period of success, even if it means driving an array of playing and non-playing staff out of it, such as Iker Casiilas at Real Madrid and Eva Cavaneiro at Chelsea.
In all likelihood, the Head of ITV Sport had identified an 'atmosphere' between Champion and Super Ally, something that may have developed back in the day of The Match, the much-maligned Saturday evening highlights show that I mentioned earlier. Nobody came out of The Match unscathed, and problems were glaring from the beginning, whether it was the use of U2 to sing it in, or the farce of negligent editing that saw winning goals scored by substitutes who hadn't been introduced either technologically or verbally, and not forgetting of course, Townsend slating beaten opponents to their face in the tactics truck (a prime example of the Conflict Model), until the final indignity of the programme being outmuscled by Cilla Black, who booted it out of it's original 7pm slot so that her own angst vehicle (or truck), Blind Date, could return there with its own brand of scripted bullshit.
Perhaps Champion and McCoist had suffered as much as anyone, but their refusal to heal old wounds worked in their favour when it came to their old employers picking through the archives of double-act cast offs. Some had simply failed to keep up with modern methods, stuck in a time warp as others passed by. The relentless over-enthusiasm of Drury, and Beglin's insistence on measured observation had no truck (tactics or otherwise) with a channel that had developed such a defined philosophy.
We must wonder about the long term future of Clive Tyldesley and Glenn Hoddle. Hoddle's employment has always intrigued me, especially in relation to the sacking in 2005 of Big Ron, who I must confess, and to be fair, ended up taking the conflict model way out of context. Do ITV know that Tyldesley is vulnerable to being pricked by Hoddle's own famous belief systems? Are we simply waiting for Clive to lose his shit one night when the Godfinder feels emboldened to ram his ideals down all our throats?
Hoddle's predecessor Townsend - his equal in grammatical corner-cutting - paid for his ability to tolerate Tyldesley himself, exhausting ITV's patience with a decade of sigh-heavy, teeth-gritting professionalism amidst the pain of having the closest ear to the rehearsed, matey schtick of a man remarkable for his own longevity when so patently unpopular with viewers.
On occasion, former Liverpool and Republic of Ireland left back, Beglin had been thrown into the ring with Tyldesley, and I have always been fascinated that, like Big Ron, his fate was sealed by a semi-final. While Big Ron's "aberration" (as the culprit himself called it) had come at that stage in the Champions League (AS Monaco v Chelsea, April 2005), Beglin missed the 2010 World Cup last four tiel between Uruguay-Holland due to illness, leaving Tyldesley to go it alone, like a possibly or possibly not more irritating version of Dec without Ant. Aware of Big Ron's self-destruction alongside Tyldesley in the principality, perhaps Beglin had been struck down by jitters, like Ronaldo on the eve of the 98 World Cup Final. Unlike Ant, Beglin's disappearance from ITV wasn't played out in the public eye, and unlike Ronaldo, there hasn't been a glorious redemption (like I said, if you don't cede to pay-per-view channels). We'll probably never know the full truth, but the bitterness of the expletives he might have aimed at his once loved colleagues this afternoon, would have come sadly too late as examples of the kind of anger even the most exhaustingly happy commentators could have bounced off.
I sided with McCoist on the subject of Neymar's goal, and later appreciated his confession to "stating the obvious" when remarking that by chasing an equaliser, Mexico were leaving themselves open to being hit on the counter-attack. This self-awareness hasn't always been evident in his work, once observing that both Deportivo La Coruna and FC Porto had players who were "comfortable on the ball". In a Champions League semi-final.
Moments later in today's match, Champion made the point that by chasing an equaliser, Mexico were leaving themselves open to being hit counter attack. McCoist responded with dignity, not making a fuss, but really John, it's one thing to take the opposite view on the merits of a goal, quite another to stop listening at all.
I was in the car going to the supermarket when Brazil secured the win right at the end, and I clenched a fist to the sound of the second goal. This one was an easy tap-in, Firmino escorting Neymar's ball into another empty net. Little to argue about for the boys there, although they'd already shown their class in making something out of nothing, and I could imagine so easily one of them making an inflammatory case for Firmino's abnormally white teeth interfering with the eyeline of the goalkeeper.
In my last post I touched upon the potential of BBC's Guy Mowbray to alienate his colleagues in the commentary box, but over on ITV today for Brazil-Mexico, cracks were starting to show in the relationship between returning warhorses, John Champion and Ally McCoist.
Both Champion and McCoist had seemed to have had their day in the art of describing and pontificating at ITV, big game players back in The Match era (2001-2004) but later presumed missing by those of us unwilling to make the hostage payments to BT Sport. As far as I was concerned, Champion and his former ITV colleagues Peter Drury and Jim Beglin had been floating under the sea in Andy Townsend's Tactics Truck since 2010, although I was aware that McCoist had breathed some air as manager of Rangers during their Premier Division exile in the last few years.
No grudges between the channel and the returning personalities appeared to be evident as they teamed up once more for this World Cup, although this afternoon there did seem to be some needle between the artists themselves, revealing itself in some barely controlled bickering over whether Neymar's opening goal was any good or not.
"A tap in for Neymar!" said Champion firmly.
"You say it's a tap-in, but it's actually a brilliant goal" - McCoist responded.
"A muck and nettles goal for Neymar" - Champion continued.
"I think that's a really good goal. The spin Neymar does after giving the ball to Willian and getting to the back post. He'll be delighted with that" - McCoist persevered.
"You forwards will take anything" - Champion sneered.
" I just think that's a quality goal" - McCoist sulked.
Some might suggest the exchange merely shows a difference of opinion, but at first, Champion appears to completely ignore McCoist's alternative view, choosing to overwrite the words of someone far better qualified to discuss six-yard box toe-pokes. And from then on, both attempt to win the argument by virtue of landing the final word. Those with trained ears will testify that the debate continued in whispered form, only ended by a period of silence while Champion recovered from a wincing blow to his upper thigh.
Up to this point, I'd wondered why the Champion and McCoist team had been preferred to, say, Drury and Beglin, but now their obvious disdain for each other made everything a lot clearer...
ITV have long identified simmering tension, or hatred, as a winning strategy to pull in the viewers, specialising in getting people who can't stand each other to sit in the same room in front of the same cameras, laying out their mutual loathing to millions. Examples down the years come to mind quickly. In 1974, David Frost's Yorkshire TV chat show fluffed up the pillows for Brian Clough and Don Revie to hit each other with at the height of their feud over Leeds United. On a 1990 episode of Midweek Sport Special, Nick Owen presided over a pre-bout sneering contest between Chris Eubank and Nigel Benn. In 1995, during their bitter battle to control Spurs, Terry Venables and Alan Sugar were booked together on Sport in Question. At France 98, Alex Ferguson and Ian Wright were at either end of the same studio panel, as bitterness lingered over Wright's two-footed lunge on Peter Schmeichel a little over a year before. In South Africa 2010 Roy Keane was expected to tolerate not only Patrick Vieira and Jamie Carragher, but even Adrian Chiles.
ITV have long identified simmering tension, or hatred, as a winning strategy to pull in the viewers, specialising in getting people who can't stand each other to sit in the same room in front of the same cameras, laying out their mutual loathing to millions. Examples down the years come to mind quickly. In 1974, David Frost's Yorkshire TV chat show fluffed up the pillows for Brian Clough and Don Revie to hit each other with at the height of their feud over Leeds United. On a 1990 episode of Midweek Sport Special, Nick Owen presided over a pre-bout sneering contest between Chris Eubank and Nigel Benn. In 1995, during their bitter battle to control Spurs, Terry Venables and Alan Sugar were booked together on Sport in Question. At France 98, Alex Ferguson and Ian Wright were at either end of the same studio panel, as bitterness lingered over Wright's two-footed lunge on Peter Schmeichel a little over a year before. In South Africa 2010 Roy Keane was expected to tolerate not only Patrick Vieira and Jamie Carragher, but even Adrian Chiles.
The approach has worked wonders for ITV outside of sport, too, notably with Richard and Judy, while Jeremy Kyle has proved a roaring success. Other channels have followed suit, such as Channel 4 with Big Brother, while at Euro 16, BBC sat Alan Shearer alongside Neil Lennon in the same lifetime as the former's attempted decapitation on the latter, down by the Filbert Street touchline.
In footballing terms, ITV are subscribing to 'The Conflict Model', established by Johan Cruyff as a manager, and practiced now, most famously, by Jose Mourinho, with the aim of maintaining or even ramping up the intensity at a club after a period of success, even if it means driving an array of playing and non-playing staff out of it, such as Iker Casiilas at Real Madrid and Eva Cavaneiro at Chelsea.
Perhaps Champion and McCoist had suffered as much as anyone, but their refusal to heal old wounds worked in their favour when it came to their old employers picking through the archives of double-act cast offs. Some had simply failed to keep up with modern methods, stuck in a time warp as others passed by. The relentless over-enthusiasm of Drury, and Beglin's insistence on measured observation had no truck (tactics or otherwise) with a channel that had developed such a defined philosophy.
We must wonder about the long term future of Clive Tyldesley and Glenn Hoddle. Hoddle's employment has always intrigued me, especially in relation to the sacking in 2005 of Big Ron, who I must confess, and to be fair, ended up taking the conflict model way out of context. Do ITV know that Tyldesley is vulnerable to being pricked by Hoddle's own famous belief systems? Are we simply waiting for Clive to lose his shit one night when the Godfinder feels emboldened to ram his ideals down all our throats?
Hoddle's predecessor Townsend - his equal in grammatical corner-cutting - paid for his ability to tolerate Tyldesley himself, exhausting ITV's patience with a decade of sigh-heavy, teeth-gritting professionalism amidst the pain of having the closest ear to the rehearsed, matey schtick of a man remarkable for his own longevity when so patently unpopular with viewers.
On occasion, former Liverpool and Republic of Ireland left back, Beglin had been thrown into the ring with Tyldesley, and I have always been fascinated that, like Big Ron, his fate was sealed by a semi-final. While Big Ron's "aberration" (as the culprit himself called it) had come at that stage in the Champions League (AS Monaco v Chelsea, April 2005), Beglin missed the 2010 World Cup last four tiel between Uruguay-Holland due to illness, leaving Tyldesley to go it alone, like a possibly or possibly not more irritating version of Dec without Ant. Aware of Big Ron's self-destruction alongside Tyldesley in the principality, perhaps Beglin had been struck down by jitters, like Ronaldo on the eve of the 98 World Cup Final. Unlike Ant, Beglin's disappearance from ITV wasn't played out in the public eye, and unlike Ronaldo, there hasn't been a glorious redemption (like I said, if you don't cede to pay-per-view channels). We'll probably never know the full truth, but the bitterness of the expletives he might have aimed at his once loved colleagues this afternoon, would have come sadly too late as examples of the kind of anger even the most exhaustingly happy commentators could have bounced off.
I sided with McCoist on the subject of Neymar's goal, and later appreciated his confession to "stating the obvious" when remarking that by chasing an equaliser, Mexico were leaving themselves open to being hit on the counter-attack. This self-awareness hasn't always been evident in his work, once observing that both Deportivo La Coruna and FC Porto had players who were "comfortable on the ball". In a Champions League semi-final.
Moments later in today's match, Champion made the point that by chasing an equaliser, Mexico were leaving themselves open to being hit counter attack. McCoist responded with dignity, not making a fuss, but really John, it's one thing to take the opposite view on the merits of a goal, quite another to stop listening at all.
I was in the car going to the supermarket when Brazil secured the win right at the end, and I clenched a fist to the sound of the second goal. This one was an easy tap-in, Firmino escorting Neymar's ball into another empty net. Little to argue about for the boys there, although they'd already shown their class in making something out of nothing, and I could imagine so easily one of them making an inflammatory case for Firmino's abnormally white teeth interfering with the eyeline of the goalkeeper.
Thursday, 16 August 2018
Last 16 - July 1st 2018
July 1st 2018
Spain v Russia: Croatia v Denmark
I'm with the family at a splash park during the hosts' match against Spain, and while the iplayer delay facility is once again my friend, nearby people are my enemy, sitting on picnic blankets shouting out scores. In these days of VAR-type technology, can we not all have a chip installed that diverts information you want to avoid hearing? Doesn't seem too much to ask.
By the time we're home, the 1-1 scoreline is a fair reflection on the spoiler comments I'd had to endure at the splash park. I'm unable to watch either of the goals as the iplayer delay function won't go back as far as the early minutes both were scored in, and I'm eleven into the second half when I start to watch, the score disturbingly unmoved.
What are you playing at Spain? I ask the telly You know I'm relying on you, but you've allowed a ten-man defence and repellent negativity - the iron gates behind the iron curtain - to keep your relentless possession at just that - relentless possession. You're my biggest hope of all the four teams playing today, in England's half of the draw, of stopping Southgate's lot from inflicting an unimaginable misery on me, but you get the lead and then you lose it. All you had to do was what you did in 2012, bore everyone to death with your tedious exemplary ability and not let the others kick the ball. But oh no, good old, reliable Gerard Pique gives away another penalty, too busy thinking about Shakira to remember that we have VAR here now, not like in 2010 in South Africa, when he got away with swinging a Chilean around in the penalty area like some human discus he was about to let fly.
So now Spain faced the tedious, exemplary defending of Russia, boring viewers to death with their drilled organisation and shape, perhaps a new style of Putin slaughter.
At least such a sporting cyanide would put us out of the misery concocted by Guy Mowbray's latest attention-seeking commentary. During cracks of lightning midway through the second half, BBC's leading commentator asked today's expert stooge, Martin Keown, if he was bothered by the thunder. Keown, who during his playing career took part in a chilling central defensive partnership with Andy Linighan for part of a season, unsurprisingly said no, to which Mowbray quipped "Get off my knee then!"
I don't know if it's validation for his comedy Mowbray wants, or a Rear of the Year nomination, but the most likely outcome of his David Brent-style vanity is a collection of co-commentators refusing to work with him. He's seemingly already been separated from Lawrenson, and judging by Murphy's tone in the Argentina game, he may have had a sneaky word with the Head. Generally Mowbray is alright, who doesn't (to my knowledge) make factual errors or is madly over-excitable. Since I started doing presentations at work to generous audiences, I appreciate how difficult a job broadcasters have, particularly in front of millions of viewers like me ready to criticise any little indiscretion, but there's such a thing as becoming too comfortable. Some of his outbursts are just a bit weird. The "get off my knee" thing seems just as odd as the time he commentated on a, well, thunderbolt Aguero goal at Sunderland and then lip-read the "Oh my God!"reaction from the Sunderland bench of forward Jodi Altidore, before mimicking the player's American accent.
Scorer of the 2010 winning goal, Iniesta, comes off the bench in what he says will be his last international tournament, but in today's extra time, the big talking point takes us back to a despairing note in Spain's World Cup history, 8 years before the success in South Africa. It comes right at the end of the additional 30 minutes, when the ever-popular Sergio Ramos is denied a clear penalty, casting back memories (or at least my memory) to 2002 when the then (joint) hosts South Korea benefitted from scandalous refereeing to deprive Spain of a win and reach a penalty shoot-out, which itself contained further injustice in the Koreans favour. VAR was supposed to rectify these 'honest' howlers, but closer inspection on the VAR officials themselves may help explain why the five-strong panel of match observers were unable to spot the conclusive evidence today. I noted a slightly open door to the side of the room, that may or may not have contained five bound and gagged topless officials, jerking helplessly in chairs, while a set of five other men in ill-fitting green shirts, including two notable dopplegangers for Mo Salah and Jurgen Klopp but without the beards and glasses, studied the action. The Klopp figure even had that same manic grin!
Ramos scores in today's penalty shoot, to the sound of banging fists in the VAR room, but after Koke and Aspas fail to beat Ivor Ikanfeev, there would have been celebration, or at least angry finger or wrist gestures, towards the Spain captain as he sat on the turf contemplating only the consolation of four Champions League trophies and a La Liga to during his country's trophy 'drought'.
I am, however, not appeased by the prospect of only Russia standing in the way of England and the Final.
On the way to the splash park, I'd taken a birthday phone call from my Dad, a day late yes, but the fact I could accept the conversation and wasn't driving, showed that the festivities were still ongoing.
"Well, both France and Uruguay would beat England" he said to me, as if to ease my mind, but even his eternal powers couldn't overturn the reality of our country's favourable side of the draw, adding that they "should reach the semi-final".
"I think Brazil look back to their best" I said, almost to dismiss the prospect of England's worryingly certain progression through the tournament, by predicting a different winner.
"I think France look the best team" Dad replied.
That evening, though, I look for inspiration from Croatia, to a country of 5 million that I hope will provide effective security at the door of the Final. Sorry Gareth, can't let you in pal, read the sign on the door, no jeans, no trainers and ID required for permitted quality. Modric and Rakitic can be trusted to keep the riff-raff out.
So when Denmark take the lead in under a minute, I'm anxious, rubbing my forehead like Messi during the national anthem before that defeat to Croatia in fact, the Croatia who eventually bashed Argentina up 3-0, clinically exposing their weakness. Now they are losing to the Danes, who are one of only two nations England have beaten in a knockout game in their last five World Cups. Pinning my new faith in Denmark? Probably not.
Calm it, Stu, calm it. Mario Mandzukic equalises just three minutes after going behind, providing an equaliser after only four minutes of play. This reminds me of the last 16 tie between Argentina and Mexico in 2006, when I went to a pub loo just after the kick off and returned to see a score of 1-1 and a grinning friend.
Croatia do labour the point in fully restoring order. In the ITV studio, their ex player and manager, Slaven Bilic, talks of their "fragile mentality" in the knockout rounds, although Lee Dixon suggests that the amount of changes to the line up in their last match was having an effect on their momentum. One of the rested players who might not have ageed with Dixon is Champions League winner, Modric, who spends a lot of the second half hunched over with his hands on his knees.
So perhaps Modric wasn't the wisest choice to take the penalty Croatia were awarded for a foul on him in the last 20 minutes. More pertinently, was the history I had with a Schmeichel ruining my cup dreams with a penalty save. Peter, who saved from Dennis Bergkamp near the end of extra time in the FA Cup semi final of 1999, now watched on as son Kasper, looked to thwart my hopes. We soon learn that the same aggressive, angry joy typical of Schmeichal senior in his playing days, is also evident in saluting his family's achievements.
So Croatia, like Spain, are taken to a shoot-out, with my confidence and their fitness draining away. Modric gets lucky with his spot kick this time and is visibly relieved that his nervy effort bounces in. Then the Croat goalie, Subasic saves three terrible penalties, leaving Rakitic to serenely stroke home and put his team into the next round against Russia.
The dream of avoiding the nightmare lives on.
Spain v Russia: Croatia v Denmark
I'm with the family at a splash park during the hosts' match against Spain, and while the iplayer delay facility is once again my friend, nearby people are my enemy, sitting on picnic blankets shouting out scores. In these days of VAR-type technology, can we not all have a chip installed that diverts information you want to avoid hearing? Doesn't seem too much to ask.
By the time we're home, the 1-1 scoreline is a fair reflection on the spoiler comments I'd had to endure at the splash park. I'm unable to watch either of the goals as the iplayer delay function won't go back as far as the early minutes both were scored in, and I'm eleven into the second half when I start to watch, the score disturbingly unmoved.
What are you playing at Spain? I ask the telly You know I'm relying on you, but you've allowed a ten-man defence and repellent negativity - the iron gates behind the iron curtain - to keep your relentless possession at just that - relentless possession. You're my biggest hope of all the four teams playing today, in England's half of the draw, of stopping Southgate's lot from inflicting an unimaginable misery on me, but you get the lead and then you lose it. All you had to do was what you did in 2012, bore everyone to death with your tedious exemplary ability and not let the others kick the ball. But oh no, good old, reliable Gerard Pique gives away another penalty, too busy thinking about Shakira to remember that we have VAR here now, not like in 2010 in South Africa, when he got away with swinging a Chilean around in the penalty area like some human discus he was about to let fly.
So now Spain faced the tedious, exemplary defending of Russia, boring viewers to death with their drilled organisation and shape, perhaps a new style of Putin slaughter.
At least such a sporting cyanide would put us out of the misery concocted by Guy Mowbray's latest attention-seeking commentary. During cracks of lightning midway through the second half, BBC's leading commentator asked today's expert stooge, Martin Keown, if he was bothered by the thunder. Keown, who during his playing career took part in a chilling central defensive partnership with Andy Linighan for part of a season, unsurprisingly said no, to which Mowbray quipped "Get off my knee then!"
I don't know if it's validation for his comedy Mowbray wants, or a Rear of the Year nomination, but the most likely outcome of his David Brent-style vanity is a collection of co-commentators refusing to work with him. He's seemingly already been separated from Lawrenson, and judging by Murphy's tone in the Argentina game, he may have had a sneaky word with the Head. Generally Mowbray is alright, who doesn't (to my knowledge) make factual errors or is madly over-excitable. Since I started doing presentations at work to generous audiences, I appreciate how difficult a job broadcasters have, particularly in front of millions of viewers like me ready to criticise any little indiscretion, but there's such a thing as becoming too comfortable. Some of his outbursts are just a bit weird. The "get off my knee" thing seems just as odd as the time he commentated on a, well, thunderbolt Aguero goal at Sunderland and then lip-read the "Oh my God!"reaction from the Sunderland bench of forward Jodi Altidore, before mimicking the player's American accent.
Scorer of the 2010 winning goal, Iniesta, comes off the bench in what he says will be his last international tournament, but in today's extra time, the big talking point takes us back to a despairing note in Spain's World Cup history, 8 years before the success in South Africa. It comes right at the end of the additional 30 minutes, when the ever-popular Sergio Ramos is denied a clear penalty, casting back memories (or at least my memory) to 2002 when the then (joint) hosts South Korea benefitted from scandalous refereeing to deprive Spain of a win and reach a penalty shoot-out, which itself contained further injustice in the Koreans favour. VAR was supposed to rectify these 'honest' howlers, but closer inspection on the VAR officials themselves may help explain why the five-strong panel of match observers were unable to spot the conclusive evidence today. I noted a slightly open door to the side of the room, that may or may not have contained five bound and gagged topless officials, jerking helplessly in chairs, while a set of five other men in ill-fitting green shirts, including two notable dopplegangers for Mo Salah and Jurgen Klopp but without the beards and glasses, studied the action. The Klopp figure even had that same manic grin!
Ramos scores in today's penalty shoot, to the sound of banging fists in the VAR room, but after Koke and Aspas fail to beat Ivor Ikanfeev, there would have been celebration, or at least angry finger or wrist gestures, towards the Spain captain as he sat on the turf contemplating only the consolation of four Champions League trophies and a La Liga to during his country's trophy 'drought'.
I am, however, not appeased by the prospect of only Russia standing in the way of England and the Final.
On the way to the splash park, I'd taken a birthday phone call from my Dad, a day late yes, but the fact I could accept the conversation and wasn't driving, showed that the festivities were still ongoing.
"Well, both France and Uruguay would beat England" he said to me, as if to ease my mind, but even his eternal powers couldn't overturn the reality of our country's favourable side of the draw, adding that they "should reach the semi-final".
"I think Brazil look back to their best" I said, almost to dismiss the prospect of England's worryingly certain progression through the tournament, by predicting a different winner.
"I think France look the best team" Dad replied.
That evening, though, I look for inspiration from Croatia, to a country of 5 million that I hope will provide effective security at the door of the Final. Sorry Gareth, can't let you in pal, read the sign on the door, no jeans, no trainers and ID required for permitted quality. Modric and Rakitic can be trusted to keep the riff-raff out.
So when Denmark take the lead in under a minute, I'm anxious, rubbing my forehead like Messi during the national anthem before that defeat to Croatia in fact, the Croatia who eventually bashed Argentina up 3-0, clinically exposing their weakness. Now they are losing to the Danes, who are one of only two nations England have beaten in a knockout game in their last five World Cups. Pinning my new faith in Denmark? Probably not.
Calm it, Stu, calm it. Mario Mandzukic equalises just three minutes after going behind, providing an equaliser after only four minutes of play. This reminds me of the last 16 tie between Argentina and Mexico in 2006, when I went to a pub loo just after the kick off and returned to see a score of 1-1 and a grinning friend.
Croatia do labour the point in fully restoring order. In the ITV studio, their ex player and manager, Slaven Bilic, talks of their "fragile mentality" in the knockout rounds, although Lee Dixon suggests that the amount of changes to the line up in their last match was having an effect on their momentum. One of the rested players who might not have ageed with Dixon is Champions League winner, Modric, who spends a lot of the second half hunched over with his hands on his knees.
So perhaps Modric wasn't the wisest choice to take the penalty Croatia were awarded for a foul on him in the last 20 minutes. More pertinently, was the history I had with a Schmeichel ruining my cup dreams with a penalty save. Peter, who saved from Dennis Bergkamp near the end of extra time in the FA Cup semi final of 1999, now watched on as son Kasper, looked to thwart my hopes. We soon learn that the same aggressive, angry joy typical of Schmeichal senior in his playing days, is also evident in saluting his family's achievements.
So Croatia, like Spain, are taken to a shoot-out, with my confidence and their fitness draining away. Modric gets lucky with his spot kick this time and is visibly relieved that his nervy effort bounces in. Then the Croat goalie, Subasic saves three terrible penalties, leaving Rakitic to serenely stroke home and put his team into the next round against Russia.
The dream of avoiding the nightmare lives on.
Wednesday, 8 August 2018
Last 16 - June 30th
Day 16: June 30th
France v Argentina: Uruguay v Portugal
My birthday today, and I'm rewarded by not having to take my daughter to her ballet class in the morning. Don't even have to suffer her usual manipulation tactics in trying to secure some overpriced magazine about ponies in the newsagents' afterwards. The original idea was to pop in after class and get a post-class chocolate bar, but this was quickly upgraded.
Instead I am indulged, beer, crisps and two cracking opening knockout games. The peace and quiet is only disturbed by the respective commentaries - and there's much to get excited about.
But first, let's talk about Didier Drogba's analysis...
Ex Chelsea hero, Drogba is BBC's African representative here, a role occupied by many before, none more memorably than Nigerian-born England international, John Fashanu, at USA 94, when he not only co-commentated on group matches involving African teams, but also presented information films during the 90 minutes. "That's called a 'nutmeg" he explained in one of these broadcasts, presumably expecting that the tv audience included a host of new observers. Yeah great, thanks for that John, now tell us something we all want to know, like, what the fuck does "Awooga" mean?
Drog doesn't do the detail like Fash. Rather, his answers to Lineker's questions are so short that there's a kind of awkward dead air existing in the space between his last word and Lineker's next question, as if the presenter is still expecting the end of the point, like Sanjeev Bhakar in The Kumars at Number 42, waiting for the strange grandad to deliver his punchline. Consequently, when Drog does produce the 'goods', his studio pals go overboard in their response (not for the first time, in my opinion). When the teams were filmed lining up in the tunnel this afternoon, Drog was asked who he thought would win. Here, a one word answer may actually have sufficed, but instead he opted to steal Patrice Evra's best passport control line; 'I have a French passport, so I'm going for France!!' The studio pals practically wet themselves laughing, like sycophantic employees greeting a hitherto lighter side of a previously over-strict boss.
When mercifully the match begins, Marcos Rojo goes from last-game hero to villiain when he derails the express train known as Kylian Mbappe in the penalty area and concedes an early penalty to France. I call Barney over in case Griezmann scores and does the Fortnite dance. The missus and her brother enter the front room too, hopeful and expectant. Thrillingly, Griezmann rolls the ball in and performs the routine to much mirth.
But Argentina aren't losers just yet and Angel De Maria swings a beauty past Hugo Lloris from outside the area.
"Probably the best goal of the tournament...or one of the best" proffers Danny Murphy, reigning in wild abandon to the tune of a Danish beer commercial.
I'd have liked main commentator Guy Mowbray to hold back on some of his own urges. After Argentine defender Mercado deflected in a speculative Messi ball to put his team ahead in the second half, Mowbray engaged in some puns relating to the scorer's surname and the similar-sounding Meccano toys that were popular in the 80's. "Super Mercado" came one remark, and then later one about a "collapse" the defender staged when trying to win a free kick.
"Oh right, I see what you've done there!" Murphy humoured the grown professional.
My problem with Mowbray is that he thinks he's a footballer, like the ref Graham Poll - also an embarrassment on the World Cup stage (2006) - used to think he was a footballer. Where Poll used to sprint out of the tunnel and indulge in matey banter with the lads, Mowbray sees himself as part of England's 1998 World Cup squad, getting song titles into interviews. In this year of Barry Davies retiring from commentating (though he stopped working on top level football in 2004), it is a shame that we now have sixth form comics providing voices to the action.
France equalise with a stunning, outside of the foot and outside of the box strike by stand-in right back Parvard, which is similar to the goal Spain's equivalent, Nacho, executed against Portugal and is probably one of the best goals of the tournament...or at least one of them...almost certainly one of the best goals in the match. Mbappe then fires in a third to restore France's early lead, his shot going through Amani with suspicious ease (reminiscent, to my dubious mind, of opening game 1990 when then Argentine goalie, Nery Pumpido, allowed the header of another player whose surname began with Mb, Cameroon's Mbiyek, to squirm through him).
France appear to put the game out of Argentina's reach with a fourth in the 80th minute. In a move evoking memories of Brazil's final goal against Italy in the 1970 Final but with less piss-taking, Olivier Giroud plays the Pele role to set up the onrushing Mbappe to slide the ball past Amani.
Messi's World Cup dream for another year seemed over, but in the last couple of minutes, he picks out the ripped shirt of Aguero to guide in another late symbol of hope for the brink-teetering Argentines. Sub Aguero had actually come on to the pitch with ripped shirt, the v neck more of a plunging neckline, as if he'd been showing the manager his wares in an attempt to get on the field.
There was time for Argentina to build another quick raid down the left, with the ball looping in to the box, but their luck, and time, had run out. At least they'd avoided the group stage exit trapdoor to Love Island, even if the scantily-clad Aguero might have gone deep into the show.
7pm, and it's another Euro 2016 Finalist, Portugal, against another two-time World Champion from South America, Uruguay. This is a match-up of the overachievers, one country of only 10 million but with a history in the last 20 years of two major Finals and three semi-finals, up against a nation of 3 million but who'd achieved a semi-final and a Final in the last eight. That's what you might call 'exceeding expectations'.
Having a Ronaldo or a Suarez in your team helps of course, and it was a cross from 'you know who' as part of a brutal cross-field one-two with Cavani that enables the PSG man to open the scoring off his stunning cheekbones (no need here for any of Aguero's cheap tricks to blind the Portuguese goalie, Rui Patricio).
Somewhat surprisingly (to me, at least), the rugged discipline of the Uruguyans, overseen by 71 year old manager Oscar Tabarez who is uanble to walk unaided due to an illness he keeps close to his chest like a Drogba insight, is breached in the second half, Portugal centre half, Pepe, an anti-hero in the Uruguay mould, equalising with a header from a set-piece. I appreciated his defiant, shouty celebration. Before this goal, I'd wished he'd retired from international football on a high after Euro 16, where his collosal performances had turned my opinion around of him. In Portugal's opening game against Spain 15 days ago he was back to the worst of himself, trying to con a free kick out of the ref rather than defend against Diego Costa, who ended up equalising for the first time in that match. Sadly tonight, his redemption is short-lived. He's pulled out of position, allowing Cavani to pick out the bottom corner from just outside the box to win Uruguay the match. The two-goal hero may not make the quarter final against France in six days, a sore-looking injury forcing him off before the end. The omens otherwise look good for his team. In 2010, when Uruguay went to the semi-final, they'd drawn 0-0 in the first match and won 3-0 and 1-0 in the other two. Then in the last 16, they won 2-1 against South Korea with one of the two star strikers (Suarez, on this occasion) scoring twice. Their record in Russia is identical, other than the opening goalless draw, which this time they turned into a 1-0 win right at the end.
France v Argentina: Uruguay v Portugal
My birthday today, and I'm rewarded by not having to take my daughter to her ballet class in the morning. Don't even have to suffer her usual manipulation tactics in trying to secure some overpriced magazine about ponies in the newsagents' afterwards. The original idea was to pop in after class and get a post-class chocolate bar, but this was quickly upgraded.
Instead I am indulged, beer, crisps and two cracking opening knockout games. The peace and quiet is only disturbed by the respective commentaries - and there's much to get excited about.
But first, let's talk about Didier Drogba's analysis...
Ex Chelsea hero, Drogba is BBC's African representative here, a role occupied by many before, none more memorably than Nigerian-born England international, John Fashanu, at USA 94, when he not only co-commentated on group matches involving African teams, but also presented information films during the 90 minutes. "That's called a 'nutmeg" he explained in one of these broadcasts, presumably expecting that the tv audience included a host of new observers. Yeah great, thanks for that John, now tell us something we all want to know, like, what the fuck does "Awooga" mean?
Drog doesn't do the detail like Fash. Rather, his answers to Lineker's questions are so short that there's a kind of awkward dead air existing in the space between his last word and Lineker's next question, as if the presenter is still expecting the end of the point, like Sanjeev Bhakar in The Kumars at Number 42, waiting for the strange grandad to deliver his punchline. Consequently, when Drog does produce the 'goods', his studio pals go overboard in their response (not for the first time, in my opinion). When the teams were filmed lining up in the tunnel this afternoon, Drog was asked who he thought would win. Here, a one word answer may actually have sufficed, but instead he opted to steal Patrice Evra's best passport control line; 'I have a French passport, so I'm going for France!!' The studio pals practically wet themselves laughing, like sycophantic employees greeting a hitherto lighter side of a previously over-strict boss.
When mercifully the match begins, Marcos Rojo goes from last-game hero to villiain when he derails the express train known as Kylian Mbappe in the penalty area and concedes an early penalty to France. I call Barney over in case Griezmann scores and does the Fortnite dance. The missus and her brother enter the front room too, hopeful and expectant. Thrillingly, Griezmann rolls the ball in and performs the routine to much mirth.
But Argentina aren't losers just yet and Angel De Maria swings a beauty past Hugo Lloris from outside the area.
"Probably the best goal of the tournament...or one of the best" proffers Danny Murphy, reigning in wild abandon to the tune of a Danish beer commercial.
I'd have liked main commentator Guy Mowbray to hold back on some of his own urges. After Argentine defender Mercado deflected in a speculative Messi ball to put his team ahead in the second half, Mowbray engaged in some puns relating to the scorer's surname and the similar-sounding Meccano toys that were popular in the 80's. "Super Mercado" came one remark, and then later one about a "collapse" the defender staged when trying to win a free kick.
"Oh right, I see what you've done there!" Murphy humoured the grown professional.
My problem with Mowbray is that he thinks he's a footballer, like the ref Graham Poll - also an embarrassment on the World Cup stage (2006) - used to think he was a footballer. Where Poll used to sprint out of the tunnel and indulge in matey banter with the lads, Mowbray sees himself as part of England's 1998 World Cup squad, getting song titles into interviews. In this year of Barry Davies retiring from commentating (though he stopped working on top level football in 2004), it is a shame that we now have sixth form comics providing voices to the action.
France equalise with a stunning, outside of the foot and outside of the box strike by stand-in right back Parvard, which is similar to the goal Spain's equivalent, Nacho, executed against Portugal and is probably one of the best goals of the tournament...or at least one of them...almost certainly one of the best goals in the match. Mbappe then fires in a third to restore France's early lead, his shot going through Amani with suspicious ease (reminiscent, to my dubious mind, of opening game 1990 when then Argentine goalie, Nery Pumpido, allowed the header of another player whose surname began with Mb, Cameroon's Mbiyek, to squirm through him).
France appear to put the game out of Argentina's reach with a fourth in the 80th minute. In a move evoking memories of Brazil's final goal against Italy in the 1970 Final but with less piss-taking, Olivier Giroud plays the Pele role to set up the onrushing Mbappe to slide the ball past Amani.
Messi's World Cup dream for another year seemed over, but in the last couple of minutes, he picks out the ripped shirt of Aguero to guide in another late symbol of hope for the brink-teetering Argentines. Sub Aguero had actually come on to the pitch with ripped shirt, the v neck more of a plunging neckline, as if he'd been showing the manager his wares in an attempt to get on the field.
There was time for Argentina to build another quick raid down the left, with the ball looping in to the box, but their luck, and time, had run out. At least they'd avoided the group stage exit trapdoor to Love Island, even if the scantily-clad Aguero might have gone deep into the show.
7pm, and it's another Euro 2016 Finalist, Portugal, against another two-time World Champion from South America, Uruguay. This is a match-up of the overachievers, one country of only 10 million but with a history in the last 20 years of two major Finals and three semi-finals, up against a nation of 3 million but who'd achieved a semi-final and a Final in the last eight. That's what you might call 'exceeding expectations'.
Having a Ronaldo or a Suarez in your team helps of course, and it was a cross from 'you know who' as part of a brutal cross-field one-two with Cavani that enables the PSG man to open the scoring off his stunning cheekbones (no need here for any of Aguero's cheap tricks to blind the Portuguese goalie, Rui Patricio).
Somewhat surprisingly (to me, at least), the rugged discipline of the Uruguyans, overseen by 71 year old manager Oscar Tabarez who is uanble to walk unaided due to an illness he keeps close to his chest like a Drogba insight, is breached in the second half, Portugal centre half, Pepe, an anti-hero in the Uruguay mould, equalising with a header from a set-piece. I appreciated his defiant, shouty celebration. Before this goal, I'd wished he'd retired from international football on a high after Euro 16, where his collosal performances had turned my opinion around of him. In Portugal's opening game against Spain 15 days ago he was back to the worst of himself, trying to con a free kick out of the ref rather than defend against Diego Costa, who ended up equalising for the first time in that match. Sadly tonight, his redemption is short-lived. He's pulled out of position, allowing Cavani to pick out the bottom corner from just outside the box to win Uruguay the match. The two-goal hero may not make the quarter final against France in six days, a sore-looking injury forcing him off before the end. The omens otherwise look good for his team. In 2010, when Uruguay went to the semi-final, they'd drawn 0-0 in the first match and won 3-0 and 1-0 in the other two. Then in the last 16, they won 2-1 against South Korea with one of the two star strikers (Suarez, on this occasion) scoring twice. Their record in Russia is identical, other than the opening goalless draw, which this time they turned into a 1-0 win right at the end.
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